HD 'Let's Play a Game, Shall We?
by tigersilver
Summary: AU; EWE; Hogwarts 8th Year. The Eighth Years suffer from ennui. Draco has an idea to alleviate that. Harry helps.


HD 'Let's Play a Game, Shall We?'

Author: tigersilver

Fandom: HP

Pairings: Lots, but the mostly the usual lot.

Warnings: AU; EWE; no blood, gore or silly angsting! Much fluff! Like cottonballs!

Summary: The Eight Years suffer from ennui. Malfoy attempts to alleviate it. Harry helps.

For the estimable leo_draconis ; a belated but sincere gift fic:)

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For leo_draconis. Can't manage your superior heights of superb smut, luv, but I'll tackle some fluffy flangst for your birthday event, happily! A belated but sincere Birthday Wish of Good Cheer, from Tiger [Forgive canon errors & SPaG, do, plz, as it was beta'd by me!)

0o0

"Let's play a game."

For once, this suggestion was not greeted by universal groans and piteous howls of 'No more bleeding Snap!' and 'Merlin, not Truth or Dare' again!' No one even dared mumble a naysay against 'Spin the Bottle', Parkinson's favourite, or Wizarding Chess, Weasley's.

Perhaps because it was Malfoy suggesting it, and he'd not once shown any real honest-to-Merlin enthusiasm for a single game the bored Eight Years played every single Friday night like clockwork in the communal Common Room, solely as an excuse to imbibe heavily, snog sloppily and play 'Shag 'N' Swap' as the evening waned. He'd participated, of course; naturally, as he absolutely hated to lose, and had even won various rounds of the many old chestnuts of group gaming. He was especially skilled at Muggle poker and could deal a mean hand of Hearts. He was rumoured to live up to his reputation as 'Slytherin Sex God', as well, which led to his being rather sought after as a partner for those aforementioned Shag 'N Swaps.

There were twenty of them in Eighth Year, half of them male and half female, pretty much. MacMillan was bit of a puzzle, after his therapy sessions. Sorted out and pegged per the old-style definitions, the Hogwart's Eights covered most of Wizarding Britain's demographics perfectly: a certain percentage of pure-blood, an equivalency of Muggleborn; some purely interested in the opposite sex, some in only the same, and a few preferring both. Religious upbringings, ethnicity and all the other factors that people like Percy Weasley liked to characterize other people by were also accounted for, as was native intellect and ability. It was a miniature bell curve, the Eighth Year, though skewed a bit towards those of higher levels of magical power and those with great gluts of sheer dumb luck. Only logical, that, given the dire circumstances of their Seventh Year.

"Potter, I said 'let's play a game'," Draco drawled again, with a tad more emphasis, and Harry Potter, ere long the acknowledged rival of the House of Malfoy, at last bothered to glance up from his Ogden's. "Now, please. This is stultifying."

"Alright, Malfoy," Potter replied cheerfully. "What'd you have in mind?"

"Yeah, what'd you have in mind, Malfoy?" Ron chimed in, sneering. "Another of your marvelous pranks?"

"Yes, Draco," Parkinson added, "have you thought of something new? Please, please, say you have, darling. I'm so fucking bored!"

As a group, they'd done all the usual board games and card games, stripping and snogging games, dares and 'Spins the's' and charades. They'd hosted a dance marathon, staged both a burlesque and a talent show; had tried choral singing and even karaoke. Four of them had been rock stars and the rest groupies; they'd their own Quidditch team. Acres of butterbeer empties and killed-dead-in-the-water Firewhiskey bottles had littered the Common Room floor during the preparations, activities, and aftermaths of these activities, and every single one of them had by now managed to shag every other one, including the antipathetic youths Weasley and Malfoy, much to their mutual discomfort. The Eights were—in two short words—terminally bored. With lessons, the threat of NEWTS, career choices, the Hogwart's dining room menu, boarding school life in general—and even each other. Which is not to say some odd pairings hadn't shown up over the months of enforced closeness, rising like scum to the surface of the mutual pool.

Malfoy and Potter, for instance, were always set up to be opposites, rivals and/or teammates. This extended to appearance. Harry, having discovered that a sea change to his wardrobe and a permanent surcease to death threats resulted in highly increased amorous notice from those few Witches and Wizards he'd gained the time to fancy, now only ever wore black. It highlighted his eyes, lent a burnished gleam to his skin and resulted in his newly shorn mop looking quite stylish, even mussed. Black jeans, T-shirt and trainers were his new classic garb.

Malfoy, in clear rejection of the sombre tones of his recent past, was only ever seen clad in white, and sometimes the cream, silver or very pale grey shades, but always hues of palest transparency or slight opacity that obliquely advertized his change-of-heart—and loyalties. He glided about the school like a Fallen Angel and caused all the lesser Years daily swooning sessions over his good looks, excellent manners and incredible charm. Some claimed he was Veela, his appeal was so pervasive. He might be Fallen, and perhaps even Resurrected, but in no way was he scorned.

Likewise, Harry was no longer considered the utter Gryffindor Innocent of Sixth and Seventh Years, having played about a good bit under the sheets (and in the Quidditch Hut, the Library and many of the abandoned classrooms) in early Eighth term (and not merely with the other Eight Years, natch!) He'd a bit of a developing rep as a player with hearts, but then who wouldn't want to be shagged by the Saviour, even if it was only a one-off? His reputation had really only been improved by the hint of 'Bad Boy', all 'round. This pumped up aura of his, of course, included the excited whispers of the Sixies and Sevensies as to the size of his tackle and the brilliant use put thereof. Malfoy, contrarily, though he maintained his unsullied reputation as a true Slytherin Shag Master, was far more chary of spreading his attentions than previously, and kept them confined to the members of his Common Room. If he'd a choice, too, he always picked upon Potter to be his partner in any match or challenge proposed. Thus, it was always Potter and Malfoy paired up whenever anyone proposed a game of anything. At all.

Goyle and Abbott, Parkinson and Weasley, Granger and Zabini, Patil and Brown, Finnegan and Thomas, Longbottom and well, erm, anyone available and breathing: those were the other steady couples the group had grown accustomed to, despite or because of the Friday night Shag 'N' Swap thing. This, effectually, had muddied up the categories Percy Weasley so adored, and cast all concerned in Eighth into a state of alcohol-hazed and usually contented 'togetherness'. They might be bored silly continually, stuck in the limbo of not-quite-adult-yet, sod it, but they were family, now.

"Come on, Potter," Draco whinged. "A game." He nudged Harry's shoulder. Harry jostled him in return—hard.

"Yeah, yeah, you said that, git," Harry muttered, waving a hand carelessly. "But what kind?"

"Yes, what kind, Malfoy?" Granger wanted to know, and even Zabini tore himself away from her clavicle long enough to appear mildly curious.

"Well…" Draco sighed and folded his arms across his chest. "I can't speak for you, Granger, but I'm bored shiteless."

Granger nodded.

"Uh-huh," Abbot agreed, also bobbing her head.

"Yeah, mate," Goyle chimed in.

"Absolutely," Nott allowed. "Stiff."

"We've gone and done everything there is to do already. Ad nauseum, as infinitum, ad—well, I'm sure you know where I'm going with that, right? So…I say we should invent one. A game, that is."

"What?" Brown poked her head up from where she was doodling across the bottom corner of one of Dean's sketchbooks and giggled. "You mean like 'Let's Pretend'?"

"Didn't we do that already?" Longbottom wanted to know. He was snuggled up against the oversized stuffed teddy bear Harry had won at the recent Hogsmeade Merchant's First Annual Street Fair, and he had that frighteningly familiar needy look in his soulful eyes, the one that always lead to the knowledgeable Eighth and Seventh Years diving for cover. "Sounds awfully like—"

"The same as ever, Draco," Harry pronounced. "Been there, done that. Talent show, remember, git-for-brains?"

"Nope," Draco huffed. He raised his chin and glared down his nose at Harry. "Not at all. We invent the game this time, not follow someone else's guidelines. Totally different."

"I don't see how?" Patil whinged. "Really, Draco, Harry's right. We've done that, or something similar, when we put on the play and then the burlesque and ran the stalls for Hogwart's part of the Fair."

"And the charades marathon, Draco. That was each of us making things up to amuse the others," Granger reminded him. "Plus we've all dueled till we were black and blue and taught the DA stuff to the Youngers. I don't see much difference, not fundamentally. It's just methods."

"I admit that, Granger, but this is still a new twist to the crup's tails, as they say," Malfoy's eyes glittered with more enthusiasm than he normally allowed on a Friday night at about ten o'clock. "We'll team up—"

"Again, Draco?" Finnegan groaned. "Not again. I'm so tired of teaming up—"

"And each duo will come up with some sort of game that's original—"

"I'm telling you, it's the same thing as the Talent Show, all over again," Bulstrode sighed. "Really, Draco, I thought you were as smart as Granger, here."

"And test it out on our own, in secret, and then present it to the group," Malfoy went on doggedly. "And then, if it's amusing, we'll all play it. It'll be fun."

"Erm, Malfoy," Potter, being the unofficial leader of the Common Room, spoke up again. "I don't think we really have time for this; that's hours and hours of collaboration you're suggesting, and also, there's NEWTS coming, and you know how Hermione and Theo are about our study time—"

"Don't be a wet blanket, Harry," Malfoy snapped. "I didn't say we have to do it all at once, did I? I mean, we can start off right now, but that doesn't mean everyone's forced to pair up and get jiggy by tomorrow, either."

"What did you mean, 'start right now', Draco?" Weasley asked. "Did you have something in mind for tonight? 'Cause if you do, I'll bloody well snog your feet out of gratitude, mate."

"Hmmm," Draco replied, slyly smiling. He winked, which sent Weasley blushing, just a tad. "As a matter of fact, dear Weasel, I did."

Weasley spluttered. "I'm not taking it up the arse again, Malfoy, if that's what you're thinking!"

"Really, Ron?" Harry sniggered. "May I watch, please?"

"What?" demanded Weasley, flushing. "It's just an expression, for Merlin's Sake. Shut the fuck up, Harry!"

"You two…" Granger eyed them disapprovingly.

"Ew!" Draco did his best lemon-eating impression. "Nothing of the sort, Weasley—calm the feck down, would you? Always jumping to conclusions, berk, and half of them arse backwards."

"They are not!" Weasley started—and shut up when Parkinson pecked his nose. "Er. They're not, that's all."

"Alright, Ron; calm down," Harry soothed. "It's alright. Really."

"Just sayin'," mumbled Weasley, subsiding.

Zabini snorted; Parkinson giggled madly and took a huge unladylike slurp from her glass of Firewhiskey.

"Well?" Granger prompted, cocking an eyebrow. "You were saying, Malfoy?"

"Go on, Draco," Zabini peered at his fellow ex-Slytherin. "Do tell. I care about what you're saying, even no one else does," he mocked.

Potter nudged Malfoy hard in the ribs, sloshing the half-gone contents of Draco's tumbler. "Go on with you, git. Stop playing around."

"Dating Game," Malfoy announced, and swung his mercurial gaze straight to a subdued Neville Longbottom, who was following the rapid exchange of comments like a spectator at Wimbledon. "And our Nev's nominated to be the first bachelor up for grabs."

"Oooh!" Brown squealed, scrambling up. "Like one of those Muggle game shows Professor Peesebottom was lecturing us about, Draco? Is that what you mean?"

"Boring," pronounced Nott. "I'm dying here." He flopped on the floor like an Inferi running out of steam. "You've gone and slayed me with boredom." He cocked an eye in Malfoy's direction and curled his upper lip scornfully. "Come on, Draco—you can do better than that!"

"Why me?" Longbottom wanted to know. He clutched Harry's teddy bear to him defensively. "I'm fine, Malfoy. I've plenty of dates—"

"You know," Parkinson was tapping her chin rapidly with a scarlet lacquered fingernail, her dark eyes alight, "we can tart him all up and round up some eligible Sixths for the panel."

"I know a few people who don't know him that well yet," Patil volunteered, swinging here head in close to Pansy's. "Want me to dig them up?" They commenced whispering furiously, sotto voce.

"Look, Draco," Harry once again felt the need to intervene. Poor Nev was shooting him these looks of desperation and the mood of the Common Room was still quite uncertain. "Why don't we just play Spin the Bottle and import a few Youngers for Nev to look over? Same thing, really."

"No, it isn't, Harry," Draco huffed. "It'll be just like all the other times. Poor sap'll end up with another one-off and then he'll moon around like an abandoned Kneazle, and either you or I'll have to ward our bed hangings like bloody fortresses for days on end. Not doing that again, thank you."

"Hey!" Longbottom exclaimed. "I'm not that bad!"

"Yes, Nev," Harry glanced over at him, shaking his head ruefully. "Afraid you are, really."

"That's true, mate, sorry," Thomas horned in. "I've had the pleasure of being consulted as to how to unlock Harry's wards—not that you can, mind you. Not that anyone can."

Finnegan chortled into his butterbeer, so hard it came out his nose.

"Oh, yuck, Seamus!" Brown exclaimed. "Put a stopper in it, will you? That's gross!"

"Shall we do it, then? Or at least get started?" Malfoy glanced about him, seeking support. "I, for one, feel our boy Longbottom here needs someone that's not plush and squeaky for the long term. What say you?"

"Um," Luna piped up, having been filled in on the rising chatter by a friendly, helpful Bones. "I'm in. Are the Fifth Years considered gaolbait still, Draco? And what about the Profs?"

"Profs!" shrieked Neville. He scuttled behind a grinning Thomas and a snorting Finnegan for cover. "No Profs!"

"Oh, yeah, mate!" Seamus laughed. "I'll just toddle off and ask the Headmistress if she's interested, shall I? She's tonnes of experience with schooling younger men, I wager!"

"I'm in," Nott perked up, quietly. "Say a fiver to start?"

"Yeah," Thomas nodded. "Bet she's got toys, too."

"Me, too, guys," Goyle reached for his wallet.

"Shut up, gits!" Neville yelped. "You're no help at all! Harry!"

Harry, however, had a thoughtful expression on his face. He was nodding, very slowly, and he and Malfoy seemed to be holding a conversation of sorts, silently, purely via some sort of intense close-range staring contest. Finally, he raised a brow inquisitively at his longtime archenemy…and friend. "Spill, Malfoy. What's the real reason for this? I know you're up to something. Tell me," he coaxed.

Draco instantly looked away and mumbled. "Sick of him poaching." He brought his bent knees together with a thump. "Annoying."

Harry leaned closer, till their arms and flanks were pressed tight together. The loveseat they sat upon was starting to live up to its name. "Draco," he said, warning clear in his voice. "Tell me louder—so I can hear you."

"If you must know, Potter, I've grown tired of him poaching on my territory!" Draco hissed quietly, whipping his jaw around, just to firm it in Potter's direction, two tattletale spots of scarlet blooming high up on his chiseled cheekbones. "Tell him to go get his own S.O. and I'll drop the idea entirely, alright? We can play something else."

Harry grinned, which sent his face into a crinkle of merriment. "Ah hah!" he exclaimed. "Thought it was something along those lines, Malfoy. You're so easy to see through, it's not even funny."

"Seventh Year's been pretty much decimated," Weasley was telling Bulstrode, loudly, "but I know a few kids from the Village who might participate—"

"I can lend Nev my new broomstick," Goyle volunteered helpfully. "S'nice. Impresses the Youngers something fierce."

"With the right style…" Brown had crowded Longbottom up against the teddy bear and was sifting her fingers through his hair, her expression one of bemusement. "Maybe…"

"And that spell for clearing up spots—Hermione, come over here for a half-sec, will you?" Patil was crouched at the knees of the poor beleaguered ex-Gryffindor, staring at him intently, as if he were a rack of beef hanging at a butcher's.

"I've brand-new dress robes that'll fit him," Zabini had roused himself, sufficient to edge closer. "Can enchant them to be little looser, you know—up top. Show off those shoulders of yours, old man. Most impressive."

"Isn't your sister on the market, Ron?" Finnegan asked curiously, "I heard she was looking for an older man."

"Oh! That's right, poor girl!" Parkinson shrieked. "Let's sign her up straight away, shall we?"

Neville whimpered. He covered his head with his hands protectively and hunched into the teddy bear's lap in a vain attempt to hide. "Please not Ginny, guys. Please, anyone but Ginny. She scares me."

"Oh, Hades!" Weasley exclaimed, attention caught by mention of his bratty younger sister. "She's always looking! And finding, too! What about that ickle Sixth Year—what was her name again? Murgatroyd, maybe?"

"I don't think you've anything to be worried about, Draco," Harry murmured ever so discreetly into his companion's shell-like ear. No one noticed, as they began to gather about the unfortunate Longbottom and his faithful teddy.

"There's some Witches from Beauxbatons I know," Bones offered up. "They might come over, if I write to them."

"That's not the point, Potter," Malfoy returned nastily, frowning blackly at his lap. "I'm not at all worried, thank you."

"Remember Perkowski Plotpopkin from Durmstrang?" Ron wanted to know. "He's looking—and he's a great chap, Nev. Very shaggable chap. Just what you like."

"No?" Harry licked the porcelain ear he'd just breathed into with reined-in passion. "You seemed a bit, oh—I don't know—jealous, perhaps?"

"Git!" Draco snapped. He glared at his nemesis in all things furiously. "Jealous of what, exactly? Your playboy arse? That Golden Cock you like to wave about? Hardly."

"Now, now," Harry murmured, and deftly edged his rival yet closer to him by slipping an arm 'round his tense shoulders. A gentle patting did much to ease the knots in Malfoy's nape. "No need to be tetchy, Malfoy. I'm over that very short phase in my life—I swear."

"Then tell them," Malfoy muttered, eyes fixed blankly on a dusty old Weird Sisters poster someone had permanently stuck to the opposite wall. "And be very clear as to your intentions, Potter. I'll not be played."

"If I tell them, they'll have us Bonded before we can say 'Bob's your uncle', Draco."

"And Longbottom will fall upon the Sword of Gryffindor in a fit of wounded pique—I know, I know, Potter," Malfoy groused. "I've heard your reasons before; they still don't impress me."

"Well…what d'you want me to do, then, Draco?" Harry grumbled back. "He's got a crush. Can't do much about that but wait it out."

"And not hurt his so-fragile heart-strings, Potter?" Draco allowed his heavy head to fall upon the Saviour's convenient shoulder with an equally weighty sigh. "What about mine, then? They don't matter in the slightest, because that sod Malfoy's a tough bastard and he won't be bothered by it?"

"They matter," Harry allowed. Their heads were so close together, the contrasting strands were tangling. "But you are tough, Draco. As nails. And Nev's just a baby, really. I'm not going to hurt him, alright? Neither are you and you know it, idiot, even if you won't come right out and say so. That's all there is to it, really."

"Better to be cruel to be kind in the end than allow him drag on like this, Potter," Draco whispered. "Always hoping. That hurts." His lips were light against the ridge of Harry's scar. "Look to your littlest Weasleyette; don't you dare tell me with a straight face that she didn't suffer whilst you were off fucking about. Not to mention what I went through—"

"Tell me about it, Malfoy," Harry sneered. He shrugged. "One little word in your ear, mate: Zabini. Besides, I said I was really sorry, Draco," Harry shrugged again and his face fell, losing its sneer for a look of abject misery—and bewilderment, "and I've stopped all that, alright? Not that I ever did understand that whole thing with her, anyway—Sixth Year. I'd've thought she'd give up on her own. Cho did. Patil did."

"Sure, Potter," Draco scoffed. "Give up on the Golden Boy when you have even the slightest chance of bagging him? I don't think so."

"Anyway, Malfoy," Harry very firmly attempted to steer their conversation back on track. "I like what you're doing here for Nev. Let's get him settled first, alright?"

Draco gazed at him, his eyes so close they were a blur of darkest midnight pupil and a dazzle of tinsel. They glittered as he blinked, very slowly. "And then, Harry?" he prompted, after a longish pause. "What?"

"And then we'll tell them about us," Harry grinned. "In June, at the Leaving Ball, before they have notice to go mad about it. And after that, we bolt for the wild blue yonder—safely."

"Hmm," Draco made a nasal noise of disbelief. "You'll manage not to do it, Potter. Don't forget I know you very well; always skiving off when it comes to commitment. I don't trust you."

"Oy! Why don't you trust him, Malfoy?" Weasley wanted to know. Unnoticed, he'd plopped his arse down on the couch next to the blond boy. "Harry's decent enough."

"Poking your nose in a private conversation, Weasley? Do you never learn?"

"Hah!" Ron snorted. "As if anything's actually private, here. Look, Harry, Malfoy—we need you over there at the frigging Council of War the girls have going. Nev's inching his way towards being willing, sort of. I think Pansy's managed to convince him. Or maybe it's Luna—you know how she is. You agree 'cause you can't remember what the question was."

"Oh, alright, Ron," Harry sighed his exasperation. "Give us a moment, will you?"

"Do," Malfoy added, and did the 'looking down his aquiline nose' thing that always irritated the Weasel immediately.

"Sod off, Malfoy," Weasley said casually. "Just so you know, Pansy's coming over to retrieve you if she feels she must. She fancies this plan, Malfoy, so you've only yourself to blame."

"Shite!" Harry murmured, scowling. "There's never a good time to talk over—"

"Shush, Potter," Draco shut him up with a quick slip of whiskied tongue across his parted lips. "Shag N' Swap, later, remember? Meet me in mine, alright?"

Harry smiled at him, instantly appeased; a lovely sweet grin that erased all the leftover lines of tension from his jaw. "Yeah, alright. Keep my side of the bed warm, will you?"

"We'll play a game, Potter," Draco grinned in return, his gaze promising all sorts of creativity behind those Charmed hangings. "Just the two of us."

"Let's," Harry murmured, and leant even closer, his lips a fraction from Malfoy's ripe ones. "Do just that."

"Arrghh!" Weasley was still hovering, and the rest of the Common Room was watching curiously, always ready to focus on the famed Potter-Malfoy rivalry and attendant altercations. "You're both seriously sick-making, you know that? Do, please, stop already. Get a room."

"Fight?" Finnegan asked of no one.

"Don't bet on it," Thomas murmured. "Look at Malfoy."

"Not again, boys!" Granger sighed, her face falling. "You'll earn detentions and I won't cover for you—not this time."

"Wha-whass going on?" MacMillan asked blearily. "Huh?"

"Are you two," Longbottom leaned forward hopefully, releasing his bear, "breaking up, maybe?"

"Oh, for Merlin's Sake, Longbottom!" Draco snorted. "Dead horse, damn it! Just cease and desist, will you, mate?"

"Um, no, Nev," Harry turned his grin in that direction, instead. "Sorry."

"Yes, so sorry, Longbottom," Pansy echoed, sneering. "Now, as to when we schedule this debacle—I was thinking Saturday next, in the Room of Requirement."

"You want I should buy a case of Firewhiskey?" Goyle asked. "Or two? If that Durmstrang bloke's coming?"

"We'll need pumpkin juice, too, for the Youngers," Granger said thoughtfully, whipping out a notebook and a biro. "Patil, you need to check on the age of consent in Scotland, remember."

"Yes, Mistress."

"Ooooh!" Brown squealed. "Kinky!"

"Oh, gods!" Longbottom moaned, and threw himself on the mercy of his teddy bear. "You really, really can't mean to do this, guys—I'm begging!"

"Too late, mate," Nott announced. "It's started."

"That's right, Nev," Finnegan added. "The Game has begun."

"No stopping now, old chap," Zabini added, smirking. "You're It, as they say."

"Maybe it won't be so bad, Longbottom," Malfoy called out, finally prying himself away from Potter's clutches. "You may even enjoy it. Never know, really, till you try. Look at me."

Lovegood smiled to herself and waved her wand discreetly. The bear jerked just a tiny bit and then patted Nev's back very kindly with a soft plush paw, murmuring sweet things. Longbottom looked very startled all the sudden.

"Malfoy's right, Nev," Potter nodded. "You never know, do you? Look at us."

Draco blushed, also rather gobsmacked.

"But," Corner twinkled, scenting romance, "we can guess, can't we?"

"And bet on it, too," Finch-Fletchley murmured slyly. He nudged MacMillan, who'd passed out earlier, during Round Two of Truth or Dare, and was right on the verge of blacking out again. "Right, Ern?"

"For a profit," Theo added, sing-song. "A tidy profit."

"But never the Prophet," Potter amended, glaring meaningfully all 'round him. Brown kept hers downcast. Granger twiddled her wand in a meaningful fashion. "As agreed, right?"

The Eights dutifully nodded. Ernie snored loudly, which counted as his agreement.

"Absolutely not," Malfoy agreed. "Now then, you boring lot, let's play a game."

Finite


End file.
